In 182 Years
by LusayLu182
Summary: Just a one-shot idea in honor of Barricade Day.


In 182 Years

It was quiet in the rue de la Chanvrerie, which was peculiar, since only an hour ago it was bursting with the sounds of war.

If a passerby had been foolish enough to be out at the late hour, on the night of June 5, 1832, he would have seen a monstrous barricade had placed itself in the street, mismatched furniture, mattresses, and paving stones made up its body, and a bullet-torn crimson flag waved in the slight breeze from its perch on top of it.

The ones who had barricaded themselves here were silent, contemplating their lives, their future. No doubt, they would all die. They knew this, they were willing.

A group of men who actually had organized the plan were sitting together, thoughtfully. I'm sure you know who they were, but I shall introduce them to you all the same. Enjolras was the leader; tall, passionate, and truly remarkable. His blonde hair shown and his red coat was an eye turner. Combeferre was by his side, through everything, his guide, and his friend. Courfeyrac was the center, usually animated and witty, but now hushed. Feuilly was a fan maker, brilliant, although he had taught himself everything he knew. Jehan was a gentle poet, most of the time quiet, and the present was no exception. Bahorel took little seriously, but there was something about that night that caused him to be solemn. Joly and Bossuet sat side-by-side, Joly was a hypochondriac and Bossuet was what he called 'The Most Unlucky Man in Paris.' Grantaire insisted on drinking in his usual, melancholy manner, and even Courfeyrac's close friend Marius had joined them, preoccupied with love affairs as always.

The minutes passed unceremoniously, until Courfeyrac finally couldn't keep silent any longer. "I have a question for all of you," he announced.

Nine pairs of eyes stared at him blankly, question written on their faces. "We are fighting for the future," Courfeyrac continued. "And since we are all here sinking in pity for our doomed fates, I want to lift your spirits. I thought 'what better way to achieve that, than talk of the future we all await'. My question is this: how do you imagine the future? Let's say, years and years into the future. Perhaps, one hundred, eighty-two years to be exact."

"Which would take us to the year two thousand, fourteen?" Feuilly asked, making a quick calculation.

Courfeyrac nodded. "Precisely. I shall start while the lot of you think of something. I imagine we should have no more parasitic kings and wretched charters in one hundred, eighty-two years. There shall not be as much fighting, perhaps, and women of my taste shall be in a greater abundance."

"You've put quite a bit of thought into your answer," Bahorel pointed out with a chuckle. "I'm surprised. I believe in one hundred, eighty-two years, men shall not have to live in fear. The bourgeois tremble in sight of the color red, for they fear what it shall bring. It shall not be so in the future."

"A better understanding of illness!" Joly said with a slight air of disgust. "In one hundred, eighty-two years, men shall be able to prevent disease, bringing a much safer society."

Combeferre nodded. "The power of medicine. In one hundred, eighty-two years, I wish that man, all men, and their women and children, can receive the advanced medical treatments. So many of our poor die from sickness, simple sicknesses, because the lack the funds to purchase the cure."

Grantaire shook his head and muttered, "Hope for what? The future is only going to become worse, the corrupt, wicked world." The others didn't listen, growing more enthusiastic by the moment.

"Schools for the poor children," Feuilly said with a hopeful expression. "If they could receive an education, they could eventually work, and thus poverty would decrease. That is my hope for one hundred, eighty-two days into the future."

Bossuet smiled. "In one hundred, eighty-two years, I hope that Evil Genius known as fate would have become satisfied with harming unfortunate souls like myself, and diminished its intensity."

"One hundred, eighty-two years," Jehan sighed thoughtfully. "Perhaps then, things shall be more than they are now. Perhaps then, men shall recognize the beauty in life, fighting will cease, wars will have no purpose." He sighed again. "I pray things shall change."

Marius nodded. "In one hundred, eighty-two years, I believe love shall become much more important in society than it is now, those who love for simply because they are in love are often ridiculed," he glared at Courfeyrac, but didn't add more.

Enjolras looked around and began, "My brothers, in one hundred, eighty-two years, our world will be changed; n one word, advancement. It is for the people alone to decide whether the advancements are good and pure, or dark. I pray they choose the light, for that is why we are here. I pray they choose the path that leads to hope, to freedom, brotherhood, and love: the future should belong to these."

My friends, that was 182 years ago, on a lonely barricade. Were their predictions correct? In some ways, yes. Would they be happy with society? Or would they insist on building a barricade in Time Square? I hope not. I truly hope not.


End file.
